Shackles to the Ground
by Senvalox
Summary: They say those who depart with unfinished business are bound to the mortal world to carry them out. And for the Courier who didn't survive the shot that fateful night, an eternity of spectral imprisonment awaits her unless she finishes the tasks left behind during her life. But she can't travel this road alone.


**Chapter 1**

The night she died, the stars disappeared from the sky.

She remembered a checkered suit flanked by two traitors. The image preceded the single bullet that ended her life. An enveloping blackness followed a flash of blinding light, and the pain in her head lasted a moment before receding to a distant thrum. The sensation of falling, of closing in, of _ceasing_ struck through her in the terrifying span of a split second. And then there was nothing.

The day she returned, the sun refused her a shadow.

Self-awareness came in slow phases, ending with understanding, disbelief, and anguish. The issue lay not in death itself, but in her persisting existence. Her consciousness lingered in the Wasteland even in the absence of her physical form, which remained buried in a sloppy, shallow grave. She wandered the Mojave for days, seeing without eyes and unable to feel the Earth around her. The purpose of her supernatural subsistence lurked in the forefront of her thoughts as she drafted theory after theory and discarded each as quickly as they came.

No one saw her, heard her, sensed her. Loneliness weighed on her phantom heart as she watched the living in silence. Her aimless travels took her through Goodsprings and Primm, and then to Nipton, where she witnessed others like her. Formless and bewildered, the spirits of the deceased lottery victims swarmed the area. But every time she tried to reach out, they vanished. The phenomenon angered her further, for she envied their progression to the afterlife, wherever it may be.

And no one, living or dead, heard her furious screams.

She continued north after deeming both herself and Nipton useless. Drifting up the road toward Novac, she encountered an even stranger anomaly. Another one like her loitered outside the town, perched ahead of the giant dilapidated dinosaur towering over the area. She approached with caution, expecting the other to dissipate just as the others had. However, this one came to her and spoke; not with words, but with the transfer of emotions. They told her a tragic tale of loss not so different from hers, weaving the elements of the story into a tangible sequence of visions. Camaraderie developed between them as they shared their grief. Just like her, the other had lost everything twice.

She wept even when tears were impossible.

And her misery grew when the other, a woman, revealed her intention to cross over. She begged her to stay, but the woman declared she was past her time. She parted with a request for the delivery of a message, a fitting appeal to the former Courier. Still, the Courier issued doubts about her ability to grant the wish, although the other encouraged her to do what she could. And as the Courier watched her fade away, she thought she saw a smaller spirit go with her.

A baby.

The Courier decided then. She'd at least try. Her invisible gaze went to the mouth of the dinosaur.

It took her several attempts to ascend the stairs instead of phasing right through. She had to concentrate on her intent, and eventually she reached the top—the sniper's perch. The aesthetics of the man's looks and physique appealed to a repressed part of her. A mere observation—as she was hardly interested—yet she felt a small twinge of cheer that she could still appreciate mundane things like this.

She hovered behind him, studying his red beret and wondering how to go about relaying the message. Finally, she settled on communicating in the way she always had in the past.

"Carla says good bye."

Craig Boone jolted as soon as she spoke the words, spinning around and aiming his sniper rifle straight at her. But behind his shades, his eyes scanned the space in front of the door, evidently failing to spot her. "Who's there?"

If she'd still possessed a pulse, it would have raced in that instant. For the first time since her death, someone alive had acknowledged her. She collected herself before speaking again.

"You can hear me?"

He swept an irked gaze over the perch, seemingly convinced of a trick at play. "Whoever's talking through a bug or speaker, I don't appreciate the joke."

She came closer, reaching out like she would with an arm. No palpable touch registered with her, yet he drew back and shuddered, swiping at the spot on his face she had aimed for. She tried again, and his response repeated.

"Damn drafts," he grumbled, still peering around with suspicion.

"I'm not a draft, and you're not alone up here," she told him.

He tensed and scowled. "I'm only saying this once. Cut that out and let me do my job or I will find out who you are and _make_ you stop."

Her bitter laugh rang out over them. "I'll save you the trouble and point you to a grave in Goodsprings. That's where you'll find me, though I'm probably starting to rot by now."

A full minute passed before he said anything. "I must've finally lost my mind," he muttered, lowering the rifle into a resting position. "So then, ghost, you've come to torment me about my dead wife?"

She experienced a sincere wave of sympathy and avoided his eyes even though he couldn't see her. "No. Only to deliver her last thoughts. She said she understands, and there's no need to let what happened haunt you anymore."

He snapped his head toward the direction of her voice. "So she has you haunting me instead?" His hand came up to adjust his beret, wiping off the sweat on his temple. "Same thing. You're a figment of my imagination. You're not real."

"I guarantee you I at least used to be real."

Boone scoffed and looked out at the Mojave dusk. "I don't even know why I'm entertaining my own delusions. Fine, I've gone crazy, but I'd rather be crazy in silence. So just stop talking."

"I can't. You're the first person who's been able to hear me since my untimely expiration. Even if you dismiss me as a hallucination, it's still nice to interact with someone who isn't about to cross over to the next life."

"Is that where Carla is now?" he asked despite his desire for the conversation to end.

"And the baby."

His fingers tightened around the firearm. "I don't want to hear anymore. Just… go away, whatever you are."

She sighed and made to leave, downtrodden. "All right. But know that being held back and forced to live in your past… you're not the only one."

She had phased halfway through the exit when he called to her.

"Wait." He brandished the rifle, but kept his focus locked on the expanse of the Wasteland. "I guess I can humor myself a little longer. I'm curious to know what my insanity comes up with for my mental poltergeist's history. So what's your story, ghost?"

She returned to his side and scanned the barren desert with him. "I was shot in the head over a week ago. I came back, only without my body. All I am now is a bunch of memories and maybe a soul that didn't deserve to pass to the afterlife."

"Why's that?"

A clenching feeling occurred in the spot where her heart used to be. "I don't know."

They stood there in the quiet as the sun dipped into the horizon. The air between them settled into a tranquil stillness, even with the persistent wary vibes emanating from Boone. She took in the hard lines of his face, seeing the inner turmoil and guilt Carla had described.

"What were you doing when you were shot?"

She stifled an amused chuckle at his new willingness to converse with her. Living or dead, loneliness knew no discrimination. "Delivering a package when three men caught and bound me. The two lackeys were members of my former tribe. The one who did me in looked polished and fancy. The New Vegas type."

Boone's brow furrowed. "You're from a tribe?"

"The Great Khans. Say, that NCR beret. Were you one of the ones at Bitter Springs?"

He shifted uncomfortably, but declined to answer.

"Ah. Well, no point holding it against you. You know a loss similar to mine." She paused to recall messy brown hair, slanted eyes the color of cacti, and the most mischievous smile to brighten Nevada. "My son died at the Bitter Springs Massacre."

His shoulders went rigid at the revelation. "That's a harsh fable. My subconscious must really be sadistic."

"If only it _were_ just a fable. I worked as a courier outside the Khans, so I wasn't there when it happened. On my return, I found my home destroyed and a child I had to bury," she said sharply. "I was saving up to raise my son away from the tribe, but in the end, my absence may have been his demise. And now, even though I've finally died, I still can't be with him. This karma is cruel, but I guess it's also fitting. Regret and remorse… those are things you and I have in common."

"Just further proves you're a product of my imagination," Boone remarked. "And what if I was the one who shot your son? What do you say to that?"

She glanced sideways at him. "Then I'd say the mercy killing of your wife and unborn baby was _your_ karma."

He whirled to glare right through her, his lip curling in clear outrage. "That's enough. I've got a long shift up here, and I'd rather not spend it getting bashed by my own demons. At least, not to the point where I can actually hear it."

"What would it take for me to convince you that I'm really here, and not just in your head?"

Boone sneered then, a show of resentment and self-loathing. "Find me the person responsible for selling Carla to the Legion slavers. It had to be someone in town. If you can pull that off, maybe I'll believe you're really some kind of ghost."

His expression fell when she answered, "Done."

She persuaded him to divulge as many details as possible to set her on the right track. Upfront about the potential limits in her abilities, she nevertheless promised to find out what she could. Night had fallen by the time they worked out an arrangement, the sky as starless as the one that witnessed her death.

Hours of observation around Novac led her to the shack of a strange man named No-bark. His constant rambling and odd mannerisms pegged him as the insane one in town, not Boone. She sought him more out of curiosity than suspicion, hoping he might blurt something useful. Her presence remained unknown, for he reacted neither to her vocals nor her spectral prodding. He went about babbling to himself and tinkering with his decorative Nuka-Cola bottles, none the wiser.

She redrafted her strategy and resorted to catching his attention by manipulating inanimate objects.

He jumped when a line of hanging bottles swayed and bumped into each other from out of nowhere. She watched in satisfaction as he recoiled from where she stood, scratching his head in a nervous gesture.

"I always said I don't believe in spooks, but they can't tell me I'm crazy for this one," he sputtered. "If that's you, Carla, I already said I don't know nothing for sure. All I know is I saw the same shadow at your place go into the motel lobby for a spell. That's all."

She grasped onto the hint, showing her appreciation on her way out by rustling some papers on his floor. The poor man almost withered, but she inwardly wished him well. Wandering over to the Dino Dee-lite Motel, she passed into the interior and zeroed in on an elderly woman behind the desk, who glimpsed out the window and then ducked down.

The Courier ventured over and found the woman opening a safe. Once she produced a piece of paper titled "bill of sale," the woman confirmed herself as the culprit by chortling at the written contents. The Courier identified Carla's name, and in a moment of thoughtless ire, she snatched the paper from the woman's hand. Of course, the effect made it seem as if an invisible string had tugged it away, and, in a panic, the woman jumped for it.

The specter realized her chance and toted the bill out through the open entrance, anticipating the woman giving chase all the way to the front of the T-Rex. Indeed, she managed to lure the motel owner to Boone's sights, and as soon as she dropped the paper, the woman's head promptly exploded in mid-leap.

Blood and matter splattered through her, and she smirked up at the sniper's perch, satisfied with the transaction of the culprit's life for his faith.

Minutes later when she returned to the perch, Boone stared, unblinking, at the headless corpse.

"How did you know?" he demanded in a low tone.

She waved the bill of sale at him, having snuck it past the gift shop owner below. He seized it from mid-air, the truth already dawning on his face when he felt the physical weight of the paper. And once he read the words, his belief was etched all over his features.

"All right, then. You're a ghost, and you've helped me put this to rest," he admitted, crumpling and tucking the bill into his back pocket. "But I don't have any payment that would be useful to you."

She pondered that for a bit. "Well, what will you do now?"

He gave a half-shrug. "Hunt legionaries, wander the Wastes… all I know is that I won't be staying here. It's time I move on from this place."

"Then I know one way you could pay me back."

His eyes lifted over the rim of his shades. "And what's that?"

She figured it was a stretch, but if he planned to leave Novac, anyway, he might agree. Neither of them had many options left regarding their respective purposes. Until she dealt with her unfinished business, she had a feeling she was bound in this form, shackled to this Earth. She needed to close the final chapter of her life. And she couldn't do it alone. She needed him.

"Help me find the man who killed me."


End file.
